


Dread Persephoneia

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 07:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21267494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written for Inception Reverse Bang and Evisionarts'wonderful art.





	Dread Persephoneia

Arthur opens his eyes. He's flat on his back in sand, too weak to move. Waves wash over him and an unrelenting sun beats down. He drifts in and out of consciousness.

He's roused by the sound of voices. He can't make out the words, and he doesn't resist when they drag him away from the pounding surf.

The strangers—a masked man and a woman, Arthur can make out now—carry him an indeterminate distance. They're dressed like security guards and don't speak further.

They bring him through the front gates of an imposing stone building. The exterior resembles a medieval Scottish castle while the interior obeys no laws of architecture or physics. The floor is carpeted in deep reds and blues, the walls hung with richly patterned tapestries, purple drapes across the windows. There are guards everywhere.

Arthur wonders who they're trying to keep out. Or who they're meant to keep in.

He's brought into a Grand Hall, filled with courtiers in revealing, baroque costumes and intricate black masks. They're all staring up at the raised dais at the end of the room.

The guards dump him in front of the dais, clothing still wet and sandy. His face feels raw from baking in the sun, lips cracked. He pushes himself upright and faces the throne, where a familiar man sits.

"Eames," Arthur says, a parched croak.

Decked in dark royal regalia and a golden crown, Eames frowns. "You dare speak to a king that way?"

He's lost track of reality, Arthur thinks as he forces himself up on unsteady legs. He knew there was a possibility. Eames has been down here for months, maybe years. There's a dusting of gray throughout his hair and beard, wrinkles Arthur doesn't recognize. "You're in Limbo," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

The blonde woman standing beside Eames bends to whisper in his ear. Despite her feathery mask, Arthur recognizes her as one of Eames' forgeries. Emilia, Eames called her—his idea of a joke, Arthur supposes. 

"Quite a claim. Why should I believe you?" Eames asks, and Arthur realizes that they're the only two people in the room not wearing masks.

"How long have you been down here?" Arthur asks, voice gaining strength with use. "Do you remember?"

A flicker of confusion crosses Eames' face as the courtiers murmur amongst themselves.

"Our Lord Eames has always been king," Emilia declares, staring down at Arthur coolly.

"Yes," Eames agrees, confusion smoothing away. "Yes, I have always been king."

"How did you become king?" Arthur presses. "Were you born a prince? Were you crowned as an adult?"

The mutters of the crowd grow louder, more displeased. "Who are you to challenge the rule of our majesty?" Emilia demands, taking a step forward. 

"Eames, we need to leave," Arthur says. "It's time for you to go back to the real world."

"Usurper," Emilia cries, pointing an accusatory finger. "You've come to kidnap our liege and seize the crown for yourself."

Guards move towards Arthur as the crowd echoes her, "Usurper, usurper!"

"Eames, listen to me," Arthur still too exhausted and dehydrated to do much besides stand, much less fight off guards. "We met in an evening firefight seven years ago, we achieved inception, and you—"

"Throw him in the dungeon," Emilia commands.

"Listen—" 

"No," Eames' voice rings out, silencing the entire hall. "I will question him personally."

"Eames," Arthur starts, but guards seize him and drag him from the court.

He is hauled—firmly, but more courteously, now—to a private bathing chamber. It's a luxurious room, deep purple walls covered in dark, curling ornamentation. The guards lock the doors behind them as they leave. There are no windows, no other exits--only a black, claw-footed bathtub filled with hot water. It's almost definitely a trap, but Arthur is cold and wet. The desire to be warm and clean hits like a physical craving. He resists barely a minute before stripping and sinking in, relief coursing through him as he brushes away the sand that's crusted to his skin. The water is bliss around his aching body as the heavy scent of roses fills the air.

When he steps out of the tub, he discovers his ruined suit has disappeared. It's been replaced by a gauzy piece of fabric that might generously be termed a loincloth. Arthur wraps a towel around his waist over it. He tries to summon a shirt and jacket, but fails to materialize even a pair of real underwear. Maybe it's because he's in Eames' territory, now.

He's escorted to the dining room by guards that ignore his requests for more substantial clothing. Once he gets there, he's distracted from the issue by the enormous table piled high with freshly prepared food and drink. 

Dangerous, a part of Arthur's mind warns. The more you engage with a dream, the further enmeshed in it you become. But the prospect of no longer being thirsty or hungry is so thrilling Arthur can't quite restrain himself from filling up his plate.

Everything is delicious, bursting with juiciness and flavor. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin of exquisite dark lace. Beneath his bare legs, he can feel the delicate silk of the cushion, the smooth wood of the chair, the thick damask backing. He eats until he can't anymore, drinks his fill of cold water.

He settles in front of the fireplace with a glass of beautifully aged wine—only one glass, no more—and can't remember the last time he felt this level of bodily contentment. He thinks he can even hear the faint strains of violin music through the walls.

The door opens and Eames appears. Wordlessly, he crosses the room, takes Arthur's face in his hands, and kisses him.

Arthur freezes. He's fantasized about Eames' lips before—who hasn't—but these aren't the circumstances under which he thought something would finally happen between them.

Eames pulls back a few inches, gaze moving over Arthur's face avidly. "My god, I can see your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. They're beautiful." Eames punctuates his remarks with three delicately placed kisses over said features.

"Eames," Arthur says, still uncertain how to handle this sudden onslaught. Topside, the flirtation has always been aimless and mild, muted by practical considerations such as having to work intensely stressful jobs together. This feels like decidedly more than flirting. "Do you remember me?"

"Of course I do. What sort of question is that?" Eames is threading his fingers through Arthur's hair, nuzzling his jaw. "You smell incredible."

"I'm not sure we should be doing this right now," Arthur says, voice not as steady as it could be with Eames kissing down his throat. "We should get back—"

Eames pauses in his trail downward to lick at Arthur's nipples. "You removed them?" Eames asks, and Arthur can't begin to guess at what he might be talking about.

"Don't you want to—"

"What I want," Eames says as he eases Arthur's towel open, pushes gauzy fabric away, "is to feel you come down my throat."

Arthur's mind goes blank as Eames kneels between his legs, wraps that unearthly mouth around his dick. Arthur should protest more, put a stop do this. He should.

Eames begins to lick and suck, head bobbing with all the practiced skill Arthur could have ever hoped for. He looks amazing, feels better, and Arthur melts into a boneless slump against the back of his chair. The last thing he should be doing is lazing in front of a fire, allowing Eames to suck him off in Limbo—god knows what's happened to Eames' mind in the time he's been down here. Dangerous to linger, to allow him to keep them down here for any longer. But Eames is sucking at Arthur's cock so ardently, one hand between his own legs as he does. How much could another ten minutes down here hurt, really?

"Gonna come," Arthur mutters before he does, shuddering at the way Eames ducks down to swallow, eyes trained on Arthur's face the whole while.

Eames crawls up Arthur's body as he continues to stroke himself. Arthur kisses him appreciatively, joins his hand with Eames'. Arthur's tasted his own come before but it's a little different here, possesses a nearly alcoholic edge. Unsettling, but Arthur doesn't have much time to consider it before Eames is ejaculating across their stomachs, moaning as he does.

Eames continues to kiss Arthur, deep and thorough and intoxicating. Arthur loses himself in it, allows himself to finally indulge his fantasies by helping Eames strip, drags greedy fingers over his muscular body.

"We need to wake up," Arthur mumbles as he palms Eames' beautiful, round ass. "We—"

"No, no." Eames twines his arms around Arthur's neck. "When I wake up, you're always gone."

"I—" Arthur struggles to find a response, but it's difficult when he feels so sated and warm with a lapful of Eames. "I'll be right there next to you."

Eames sighs as he traces the bridge of Arthur's nose with the tip of his own. "There's daylight and we're not in my bed chambers. How is this possible? How are you here?"

Arthur doesn't know how to interpret what he sees in Eames' expression. "What?"

"You always leave." Eames kisses him again, hard enough to leave Arthur gasping for breath. "Not tonight, though. Now that you're here."

Arthur blinks, feeling strangely sluggish and distant as something metal snaps round his left wrist. The haziness he'd attributed to a fantastic orgasm sharpens into the realization that he's been drugged. Alarm pierces through the fog that's settling through his mind. "Why--"

"You are my subject now," Eames says as Arthur's vision fades to black. "I am your king."

* * * * *

Arthur awakens to the sound of rhythmic creaking.

His eyelids feel immensely heavy as his other senses slowly come back to him. The smell of roses is thick in the air; it's almost difficult to breathe. His wrists are chained above him, his ankles to the floor. He's wearing nothing aside from that diaphanous loincloth.

As he slowly forces his eyes open, there's confirmation that he's in a bedroom, chained in front of an enormous four poster bed Eames is currently having sex on.

The room is dark, lit mostly by a large fireplace and a few scattered candles. It takes Arthur a minute to resolve the shapes before him. Eames--on all fours, being fucked by a dark-haired man--staring at Arthur with possessive hunger. It's as unsettling as it is undeniably arousing, watching Eames take a cock and so obviously enjoy it. Not a good situation for that kind of interest, Arthur tries to tell his dick, but it ignores him.

The man fucking Eames is masked, like everyone else, but there's something familiar about his hair, the shape of his face. Arthur squints as his eyes attempt to adjust to the low light--

"You're still here," Eames says, words punctuated with a sigh of pleasure. "Now you're both mine."

No. It's not possible. He wouldn't—

"You taste different than him. You smell different," Eames says. "Will you fuck me the same way?"

It's a projection of Arthur. 

Eames is being fucked by a masked projection of Arthur: hair slicked back, a series of earrings down the shell of his ear, bangles around his wrists jangling with every thrust into Eames' ass. The projection leans back to readjust his grip on Eames' hips, and Arthur can seeing the nipple piercings now, the trail of a necklace down to his bellybutton. 

Impossible. Shocking. Bizarre. 

Yet Arthur can't help the way his cock twitches when Eames comes with a groan, can't help drinking in Eames' dazed, pleasure-drunk expression. The projection fucks through it, hips stuttering to a halt with an open mouthed expression Arthur hopes he doesn't make in real life.

"You spoke," Eames murmurs, crawling towards the edge of the mattress, towards Arthur. "I should have known when you spoke."

Arthur stares in horror at the projection. "It doesn't talk at all?"

"Never." Eames sits up to stroke the line of the projection's jaw with something that resembles sadness. "No matter how many times I asked."

The projection leans into Eames' touch, sinuous and wordless. Arthur can't read its expression behind the mask.

"Jesus, Eames," Arthur says, not sure what part of this whole situation to be most disturbed by. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Years," Eames' tone is distant. "I said no at first, even though you kept appearing in my bed. Then two years passed, and I couldn't—I couldn't say no anymore. Five years of this, then eight."

"Ten years?" Eames nods, slightly. 

A decade is a long time for a man to be lost in his own mind. 

"But now you're here." Eames climbs off the bed, and Arthur can't help but notice the obscene trickle of come down inner thighs. Can't help but want to lick, to taste. "You won't disappear in the morning. You're mine."

"I'm not one of your projections," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

Eames caresses Arthur's cheek. "Yes, I can wake up to you now."

"No, Eames, listen to me: this is all a dream. Do you remember the job we were prepping for, the new blend of Somnacin we were testing?"

"A job…" Eames' expression goes unfocused. "But I've always been king here."

"You had a bad reaction on the second level." Arthur twists in his chains to grab Eames' forearm, feels the muscle jump under his palm. "The dream started to come apart and you fell deeper into it instead of waking up."

"No." Eames takes a step back into the arms of his projection, which curl around him protectively. "You're not real. Nothing is real except me, because I am king."

"I'm not a projection. Like you said, I came here during the day and surprised you. I'm here to get you out." 

Eames either doesn't believe Arthur or he doesn't care, because he turns back to the projection and speaks no more.

* * * * *

Eames and the projection fuck again. Arthur makes himself hoarse, asking, yelling, demanding Eames listen to him. Neither of them acknowledges him.

Eames and the projection finish eventually, go to sleep untroubled by Arthur's shouts. Arthur dozes off occasionally as well, arms aching from being held in chains, body still feeling the effects of what he was dosed with.

* * * * *

In the morning, the projection is gone.

Arthur stretches, tries to work the soreness out of his muscles and joints. He's tired, but reminds himself that this is all a dream, that he doesn't actually need sleep down here. It helps, a little. 

Eames opens his eyes amidst rumpled sheets and a slow smile breaks across his face when he sees Arthur. It's a beautiful smile: sweet and pure and happy. It's open in a way Arthur never suspected Eames—guarded, careful, smirking Eames—could be.

For a moment, Arthur feels a pang of—something. All these years they've been working together and never once has he seen Eames smile like this.

"I can see you in the sun," Eames whispers as he slides out of bed. "I never thought I would."

"Let me show you the real sun again," Arthur says, sensing his opportunity. "Unchain me."

Eames bites his lower lip, worries at it. "But what if you leave?"

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"It isn't his fault that he left." It's a declaration, but Eames sounds uncertain when he glances at the empty bed. "He wanted to stay."

"That's right," Arthur says, beginning to understand. "I didn't mean to leave you behind, Eames. I thought the kick would wake you up, too."

Eames puts a palm flat on Arthur's sternum. He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes. "We were never like this up there, were we?"

Arthur doesn't move, save for the rise of his breath. "No. We weren't."

"Down here, I was king," Eames says, and removes his hand. "I controlled everything. But I couldn't make you speak."

"I can now," Arthur says. "Unchain me."

"Will you stay here with me?" Eames asks, voice quiet. "I can give you anything you want."

"Don't you want to wake up?" Arthur counters. "Don't you want something real?"

"What's real?" Eames glances out the stained glass window, a wash of reds and pinks and oranges lighting across his face. "You're real here. I'm real."

"I can't stay down here," Arthur says. "You know you can't keep me. I'll find a way to get out. Before I do, I want to take you with me."

"That's why you came back?"

"I came back for you," Arthur says as he feels the manacle around his left wrist tense and release. He reaches out to catch Eames by the hip, draw him closer. "I didn't want to leave you down here."

"I'll be different." Eames sways closer as the other manacles fall open. 

"We'll both be different," Arthur says.

He snaps Eames' neck: a quick, clean death. After easing Eames' body to the ground, Arthur follows him up.

* * * * *

Arthur opens his eyes on the second level, more than a little concerned that Eames might have panicked and run off. He needn't have worried; Eames is seated on the bed, staring at the hotel room uncomprehendingly. In comparison to the castle in Limbo, it looks hopelessly sleek and modern, all hard reflective surfaces.

"Ten years," Eames says, barely a whisper. "In a dream."

"Now it's over," Arthur says. "You're almost free."

"Free," Eames echoes. He stands, tugs at the sleeves of the linen sport coat he's wearing. "Yes, I suppose that's partly what I wanted."

Arthur opens the balcony door, cool wind rushing through the room. He's relieved to be clad in a suit once more. "Are you ready?"

Eames peers over the railing; the drop down to the ground below is fatal. "You'll be there?"

"I will," Arthur says, helping Eames climb up. They fall together.

* * * * *

The first level is a simple one: a grassy field on the side of a mountain overlooking a placid lake. There are birds chirping when Arthur opens his eyes.

"I remember this sky," Eames says, staring up at the sun. "The way the air tastes. We've been here before."

"Shouldn't base dreams off memories, but this was supposed to be a test run, in and out." Arthur removes the cannula from his arm. "Didn't feel like coming up with something from scratch."

"You don't remember?"

Arthur glances at Eames quizzically. "Remember…?"

"The first time we met," Eames says. "I was wearing Emilia."

"That's right. We were on separate teams working the same mark." Arthur huffs a laugh as he recalls how pissed he'd been. "You got the jump on us. Shot me out of the dream."

"You used this build then, too."

Arthur shakes his head. "That was back before I knew better."

"Now you're simply lazy." There's a hint of Eames' familiar smirk. 

Arthur snorts. "Guess I walked into that."

Eames walks to the edge of the cliff, the faintest smile curling his lips. The memory of those lips stained with come drifts back—already fading the way dreams do.

"Hey," Arthur says. "At the end of the Lindbergh job, I thought we were—I don't know. Moving in a certain direction. But you turned me down when I asked you out for a drink."

Eames pauses, doesn't turn to face Arthur. "You weren't wrong. I found you most—intriguing, as you well know by now. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but earlier that day I'd received a generous offer from a third party for the information we'd extracted."

"You were considering selling us out?" Arthur asks. He knows Eames' history; he's always been a little surprised Eames hasn't double-crossed him yet.

"I considered it, and declined." Eames glances over his shoulder at Arthur. "I didn't wish for you to be cross with me. But I also didn't think—I wasn't quite ready for a drink, yet."

"Fair enough." Arthur joins Eames at the edge of the cliff, ready to step off one last time.

* * * * *

Eames is already awake when Arthur opens his eyes. Their chemist, Shimizu, is buzzing around in obvious relief, recording vitals and drawing blood for further tests. She barely glances at Arthur as he sits up.

Arthur's not sure why he expects Eames to look different; barely twelve hours have passed in the real world since Eames went under. Already, the details of the various dream levels are beginning to slip away, leaving hazy memories of a castle, a hotel room, a mountain.

"Do you recognize me?" Shimizu asks Eames. At his nod, she points at Arthur, "How about him?"

"Shimizu and Arthur." Eames' drawl is unhurried, easy. "Would you like your full dossiers or are your current criminal aliases enough?"

"No lasting damage, I see," she wanders back to her machines and mutters, not quite under her breath, "more's the pity."

Eames seems more amused than miffed, submitting to a full battery of tests. After watching Eames get poked and prodded for twenty minutes, Arthur asks whether he should be examined, too. Shimizu turns to him with blank surprise and says, "You're still here?"

Arthur takes that as his cue to leave, driving back to the short-term rental apartment, undecided about whether sleep sounds appetizing or appalling. He's fixing himself some dinner when there's a knock on the door.

It's Eames.

"The dream took some turns," Eames starts after Arthur invites him in.

"Some crazy shit went down," Arthur translates.

Eames chuckles. "Yes, that's—accurate." Arthur waits and Eames scratches his nose. "I suppose it's become obvious that I may desire more than a purely professional relationship at this juncture."

"Are you asking for a date or a fuck?" Arthur asks, not sure what answer he'd prefer.

"I don't know, to be quite honest." Eames is looking all around the apartment living room, as if taking in all the details. 

"I'm making some dinner, if you want to start there," Arthur says, after a pause.

"Dinner." Eames smiles, something familiar and lovely and sweet in it. "Yes, I think I'd like that." 

fin


End file.
